


Justice

by multiplefandomfan



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers (2013) #29, Cake and Multi plotting (never going to end well), Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Unhappy Ending, Unsettling, forced alcoholism, hickman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplefandomfan/pseuds/multiplefandomfan
Summary: Steve remembers. So he waits, and faces his monster.[Story for the Cap-IM RBB 2020)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2020, It will never get better





	Justice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[ART] Justice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318235) by [the_casual_cheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake/pseuds/the_casual_cheesecake). 



> This was written for the art 'Justice' by the most splendid the_casual_cheesecake, who is absolutely fabulous and has been a star throughout this. Please, please, please go and shower their work with the adulation it deserves.
> 
> It has been beta'd and cheeread by athletiger, the_casual_cheesecake and Ravendiana - thank you so much!

Steve sat in his favourite armchair in his and Tony’s apartment, a cold cup of coffee between his clenched fingers, an unappealing skin already forming over the top. He had made it several hours previously and had not thought to take even a single sip. The thought of having anything in his mouth made him feel sick; the bitter taste would churn up the acrid feelings already strung tight within his belly. And he certainly didn’t need any extra caffeine - his skin was thrumming with tension and the want to _move_. A desire he repressed strongly, allowing himself to only sit there with his cold drink.

He leant back in the armchair, the fabric of his familiar and comfortable America suit barely showing a crease at the movement, and rested his elbows heavily on the arms in an attempt to lessen the tension thrumming through him. He raised one foot so the ankle was resting lightly on one knee allowing his other knee to bob up and down in a rapid motion more suited to his ‘love’ than himself.

Nothing to do.

Nothing to say.

Just...

Sit there.

And wait.

His gaze drifted, unseeing, from his mug to the red of his boots, and he rubbed one hand against a toe absentmindedly to wipe a mark off it. He never thought he’d need to be suited up for a moment like this...

Part of him wanted to cry. Wanted to mourn what he once had held so close to his heart. Wanted to stand outside in a pouring thunderstorm and allow raindrops to mix with his tears until one was impossible to differ from the other.

Part of him wanted to rip. To rend. To destroy. To feel blood spatter across his face instead of those tears he also wished for.

Part of him wanted to careen to the floor vomiting until he could be certain that nothing alien resided inside him other than his own organs and skeleton. The... violation he felt. He couldn’t find words for it. Knowing that someone who purported to love him could then turn around and have a hand in orchestrating having his mind wiped. As simple as if his mind were a dirty plate requiring cleaning. Nausea curdled in his gut as the mental image of the group of them, the Illuminati, laughing with each other as they surrounded his prone figure. Laughed at his… stupidity. His naivety in trusting them. Any of them.

Nausea didn’t cover it. An innate desire unexpectedly welled up within him to strip his own skull off and tear it into minuscule shreds until he felt like himself again. Felt like he owned himself rather than that shadowed group he had once dared called his friends. One of whom he had dared call his husband. Who had professed to love him.

Steve’s absentminded gaze slipped to his glove-encased hands and observed detachedly how a light trembling appeared to have overtaken them. His hands were trembling? Was he afraid? Did he fear Tony? Determination filled his gaze as he forced his hands into stillness. No. He would not fear the man who had seized control of his mind, his memories. He refused to. It was time to take control, and force fear on that man instead.

A smirk danced across Steve’s lips as he seized the fear treading its way into his mind and batted it back, converting the emotion into anger. Anger, he could deal with anger.

He would make _Stark_ feel that fear instead. Stark was one who deserved to feel this trembling sensation under his skin. This nausea. Stark was deserving of these unwanted feelings. He was the one in the wrong! He deserved to feel uncertain of reality, not knowing whether he could believe his own mind. Stark deserved it all!

It. Was. Not. Fair.

He’d paid his time! Served his dues. Why could he have not had this moment of happiness? Did he not deserve it? Had he not given enough? Why was he not… worth it? Why would Tony just not _listen_ ; he always felt he knew best. Flouting his genius. Getting involved with the Illuminati! Building those weapons of such destruction. How could he have not realised that just having the bigger gun would not win the fight? Just because he was smart did not necessarily mean he was right. This was a whole _world_ he wanted to destroy. How could he possibly believe that was the correct action?

Steve wanted so, so much to believe it was not true. That the man who he loved could not have even dreamt of these actions.

But wishes were not for men like him.

Well, now? Now Tony was going to learn to listen. And the lesson would stick.

The sound of the approaching elevator caused his knee to freeze in place and him to take an instinctual sip of coffee causing his lip to curl in disgust from more than just his thoughts.

Revolting.

While he was ruminating on the almost nausea-inducing effects of the coffee before him, (one that was definitely caused by the coffee-skin still lingering on his tongue, not remotely his thought process at all) the elevator doors slid open in that absolutely soundless fashion that Steve had yet not seen replicated outside of Stark Tower. Tony walked out, shoulders slumped and head ducked in that way he did only after a long and exhausting day.

Steve could not stop thinking about how well he _thought_ he knew the man he loved. He could tell what kind of day he had from the way he left the elevator. He’d had a good day when he left the lift before the doors had even finished opening, hands flying everywhere as his fast-paced footsteps strode around their shared living space, his mouth barely able to keep up with his thoughts that flew around his head. When he came in like this, he was tired down to his bones. He’d drop his briefcase the second he entered the room as though it was just too heavy to bear.

Or were those memories and thoughts a lie? Had they been placed into Steve’s mind just as his other memories had been deleted? As though he were some sort of...computer. Machine.

Anger began curdling within him once more.

Chilled liquid spilled over his hands and he shot the newly cracked mug a glance, irritated. It had been some time since his emotions had been so out of control that he’d cracked or broken a mug. He knew his limits intimately these days. This lack of control was yet another symptom of the directionless anger roiling in his belly.

He turned his gaze from his coffee to his husband, cool eyes taking in the familiar, loved(?), features. Tony’s mouth was moving, indicative of the fact that he was speaking, but Steve could barely take in the words over the sound of his own heartbeat that seemed to be the only sound that he could take in. The sound beating as rhythmically as a war-drum heralding an incoming attack. His husband’s hands were remaining placidly by his sides, hanging there limply.

Normally, when Tony came in this exhausted, Steve would put his (usually empty by now) cup to one side, move any of the paperwork he had been doing off his lap, get up and go and take Tony’s coat before leading him to the sofa to relax while he made him a drink. Normally they’d kiss, a gentle kiss full of promise of what would occur later. Depending on Tony’s level of exhaustion he might give him a massage as they sat next to each other on the couch. Practically on each other. Sharing the same air, the same cushion. Everything.

But tonight was not normal.

He forced a grunt past his lips in response to whatever Tony had just said. Not really paying attention to what he was agreeing to - it wouldn’t matter, after all. He wouldn’t be adhering to that agreement.

He traced his eyes over the handsome face, the gorgeous, muscled body hidden beneath those rumpled clothes, suit jacket already slung carelessly to the floor in an act that usually irritated Steve. Searching. Hunting for some indicator that this man, this stranger dressed up as his once adored husband was lying to him. Trying to pull even more wool over his eyes. This...This..

This…

This deceitful.

Lying.

Festering piece of a man.

This _villain_.

With that thought, the last hint of uncertainty stilled and dissipated completely.

He was in the right. Tony, no, Stark, was in the wrong.

Stark and his band, this, _Illuminati_. They were lying. Cheating. Fooling innocent people who would otherwise know better.

The thought again crossed his mind of what else he’d been lied to about. What other thoughts had been implanted. Was Stark really at the Stark International offices today as he’d stated that morning? Or had he been squirreled away with his co-conspirator, Richards, building more weapons to rail against some overblown cause.

This was always Stark’s problem! He always assumed that he knew better and was in the right?! Look what it had led them to!

Steve’s lip curled upwards in a light snarl as he cut through whatever drivel, whatever… bullshit the man before him was going on about.

“Why?”

That quiet, angry tone was so unlike the fond manner he usually used to address his husband.

Tony finally turned his gaze to Steve, and the moment that Steve’s mindset, and clothing, dawned on him was obvious to the soldier. Those exhaustion-glazed blue eyes roved over the tense muscles and the fixed, steely expression. The shoulders squared and readied for battle. Steve could almost see the supposed futurist’s mind ticking as it rewound over the past few moments as and the differences in Steve’s behaviour slowly dawned.

“St-”

And then Steve was _there_. Spittle smacking into Tony’s face from the force that the words were being spat out. Fast, furious words overriding any attempt that Tony could make to say anything.

“Why? Why did you do it? Did you think I wouldn’t realise? Did you think that I wouldn’t remember? How? You and Richards. The Illuminati. Those _weapons_. You are not some… some… You are not _**God!** _Despite what you may think of yourself. You can’t just sneak in and steal someone’s memories. Warp their thoughts! You are **wrong**. You always, always do this. Think you know best. You think yourself such a futurist… You”

Steve narrowed his eyes as he observed a shiver dance its way up and down Tony’s spine. Perhaps the man was beginning to know fear, was beginning to realise that he hadn’t gotten away with his malevolent scheme this time. Perhaps he was only now sliding into that moment of pre-warning, of seeing how things were about to go. Perhaps he was finally registering the fury that Steve just knew was visible within his own eyes. Steve allowed a smirk to cross his lips at the dawning horror that was growing within Tony’s eyes. Those plump lips that Steve loved to kiss with such passion parted in speech but were only able to utter a “So”... before Steve cut in.

“Predict this.”

Tony clearly did not see the fist which came smashing into the right side of his face with a massive crack of something shattering beyond repair.

Steve watched dispassionately as Tony fell, eyes slipping closed. He could not see the table which impacted with his head as he slumped bonelessly to the ground. No one attempted to break his fall.

He could not see the shattered coffee cup, dark brown liquid dripping from the splintered shards which cut lightly into his face. Steve certainly wasn’t attempting to prevent the additional damage.

There was something almost artistic in the way that the splatters of Stark’s blood mingled in with the chilled liquid that Steve determined he would remember. Perhaps he would sketch it in the future. In the present? He certainly wasn’t going to clean up the grotesque combination. Let it set the scene for when Stark regained consciousness.

Observing the slumped figure, Steve’s legs seemed to suddenly have molten ice running through them as opposed to the solid bones and muscles he usually relied on. He slipped downwards until he was kneeling next to his husband’s prone figure, one lightly quivering hand reaching out to turn Tony’s head so that his neck was not at such an uncomfortable angle. That looked better. From there, it was easy to allow himself to start to gently stroke his husband’s messy hair in an attempt to bring some form of order to the tangled, messy locks. His spare hand cradled the other side of the slackened face, rubbing softly at the area where a truly fine bruise was already beginning to show.

“It’s too late for sorry.” He whispered, anger draining from his body leaving his frame limp with… some unquantifiable emotion as he continued to gently play with the greasy hair “But, why did you do it? How much of what is in my head is real, and how much is fake? You’ve made me doubt… everything. Did we really get married? Do I really love you? Or you me. Just… how could you do this. To me, of all people. When I first woke up, you were the only thing that seemed… real. Those conversations with Iron Man. You made me feel… alive. Real. And now? You’re making me doubt everything. Again. Weren’t things good enough between us? Wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t you just _come_ to me. We could have come up with something… We would have. It’s what we do. We’re a team. I… I love you. Loved. I don’t even know! How can I love you after what you did?”

His fingers slowly curled into a fist, as his jaw clenched, uncaring of the fact he was now tugging Tony’s strands in a way that would have been painful if the man were conscious. His azure eyes narrowed, staring at the slackened features of the man, the villain, before him.

“I will find out why, Stark. I will get my answers. You owe me that, at the very least.”

He pushed himself to his feet into a crouching position, resolve strengthened anew, with nary a creak of a joint to betray how long he’d been kneeling there stroking his husband’s motionless form. Without a sound, he began to undress the lax body, devoid of any joy or passion despite all previous associations with the act. Each move was perfunctory in nature, with no hint of emotion daring to cross his wooden expression. Steve determinedly shoved away thoughts of all the times he’d laughingly stripped this responsive body, playful words, kisses, being shared between the pair.

Those memories had no place here. Not now. Possibly not ever. Who even knew if they were real?

Once Tony was completely naked, Steve stepped away briefly, not taking the time to allow his eyes to rove over the familiar form. He moved one of the chairs that usually resided neatly out of the way under the dining room table (gone were the days when those chairs were nearly constantly filled by one Avenger posterior or another). He placed it near the wall furthest from the elevator that Tony had stumbled his way through earlier. Then, he retrieved the rope that he’d set in the kitchen while making his coffee, trusting his super-hearing to pick up the first sounds of Stark stirring.

Then, it was time to return to his husband’s steadily breathing body.

He stared for a moment, counting the breaths and matching his own to them subconsciously. This truly was the point of no return. Once he did this? Once he put his plan into action? They could never return to this life of sweet domesticity.

Steve’s lip curled up once more in a silent snarl.

That domesticity had only shielded deceit and deception. It deserved to be shattered.

Now, if Steve’s plans went as they ought, the deception would be in his court. Under his control. The way it always should have been. He never should have trusted the genius of many faces. The man had lied to them all from the beginning in those early years when he concealed his identity. All those years and years of friendship that slowly kindled into passion and love. How many times had Tony been untruthful because he believed he knew better. How many times had he believed his genius made him always correct.

This was what that had come to.

This was the consequence of Tony’s actions.

He bent and picked up the dead weight and placed it on the chair that he’d set out earlier. With one hand, he easily held the figure in its seat while his other picked up the rope and deftly tied the unprotesting form to the chair. He looped the rope around the limp man’s torso just above the RT unit to ensure that he would remain upright, before tying his feet together with another length of rope. Finally, he tied the man’s wrists to the backs of the chair, forcing the body into an uncomfortably straight backed posture slightly away from the back of the chair. Finally, he pulled the chair forward once more so that no part of it was near the wall.

There. He couldn’t leave Tony alone like this as the wily man would find a way to slip from these bindings, concussion or not, but it would keep him steady while Steve was present.

He grabbed the shield, slinging it onto his back in a movement as familiar as breathing as he tugged down his cowl with his other hand relishing in the comfort the familiar movements brought him. It had initially felt odd to remain in his uniform, but he was glad he had. The team enjoyed teasing him about his attachment to his Captain America appareil, but it gave him comfort now. Captain America stood for Good and Righteousness. He was a hero. It leant a justification to the actions that he was about to commit that comforted him. And yes, he did draw comfort from his shield too. The stability and reassurance it offered were comforting in this new world where everything seemed so unstable. Thoughts he would never let his team be aware of - they already teased him that he treated the damn thing like some child’s teddy bear.

As his gaze returned to his unconscious husband, the slight lightness that had coloured his thoughts danced away like dandelions in the wind.

Would Tony, _his husband_ , ever have told him the truth of what happened? The fact that he just… just decided it was better to wipe Steve’s mind than allow him to have his own opinion regarding building the bombs. Couldn’t the foolish man see? After the Infinity Gauntlet shattered … to just go from that to saying they’d have to destroy the Incursion with weapons. What podium did Tony and the others stand on that they believed they could make those kinds of decisions? To just… wipe his mind. Cause him to forget it all… They’d have found a better solution than playing God and just destroying other worlds… the others in the Illuminati were just wrong, and no one other than Steve could see it. Why couldn’t they see it?!

Steve took a deep breath to settle himself.

He was getting himself worked up. Calm. Calm now, soldier. The time for action was coming. This was a war, as vital as any other he’d fought in. One of the most important things he’d learnt over the years? The value of waiting.

Steve took a deep breath in, still relishing, even after all these years, the ease in which he could fully expand his rib cage, and exhaled. He strode his way to a chair with carefully measured steps, and placed himself lightly within it. He rested his elbows on his bent knees and, steepling his fingers together, rested his chin upon them. His gaze bored its way into his husband’s peacefully resting frame, searching for any of the deceit that its brain was so capable of.

And waited.

Some time later, Steve had no idea how long, Tony’s neck muscles clenched. This was always the way he woke up, his neck and shoulders gaining tension long before the rest of his body caught up. The man’s brain always seemed to be the last thing to come online, a fact that those who knew him found alternately amusing or endearing.

The ropes restraining him to the chair disrupted his usual waking up process.

“Wha-?” Tony’s hand clenched and his forearm jerked in an aborted reaction to rub at his forehead, no doubt to soothe the ache that must be present from Steve’s blow. Or wipe away the dried blood that had formed winding trails down his cheek. The itchy sensation of dried blood always did drive the man nuts.

“...St-Steve?”

Clever man. Gathering all the data he could prior to opening his eyes. Just as Steve had taught him.

Show time.

Steve gathered all the anger he could feel roiling within his gut, his blood, his… everything. And concentrated on focusing it, hardening it into one crystallised lump within his heart. Ice cold. He knew ice. It hardened him, ran through his veins. He _was_ ice.

And ice could burn.

In one smooth movement that would have looked like greased lightning to the concussed man before him, he pushed himself to his feet and strode forward until his knees were knocking against the wooden seat with almost enough force to knock the chair, and man restrained to it, over.

Tony inhaled rapidly as his chair wobbled, that horrible feeling of falling backwards into space that Steve knew so well could only be exacerbated by the fact that he could neither move his limbs to either catch himself or flail.

But Steve had measured the space to the millimeter.

The chair, and man, rocked backwards but did not fall.

“Steve. What the fuck?!”

Now Tony sounded angry. Was that anger just covering the fear? Or was it genuine anger. Did Tony suspect that Steve knew about the mindwipe? A man as smart as he would not waste time contemplating if this was a joke or not. Or did he suspect something else?

Steve used the ice embedded within him to allow a cold curve to his lips, a gesture which no one could ever mistake for something so nice as a smile.

“Anthony Edward Stark.”

Steve knew that he could not match Tony for intellect. So his only way to win this was to keep things moving so fast that Tony didn’t have time to bring his intellect to bear. He had to keep him off footed. The concussion would surely help with that, and Steve had another trick up his sleeve to help even further.

“Steven Grant Rogers. As we seem to be full-naming each other here. Now... What. The. Fuck.”

Steve continued to ignore his husband’s words, and just allowed his stare to remain steadily on the naked man. It was wonderful this way. He could see every flex of the muscle as Tony tested the hold the ropes held on him. He could see the controlled breaths Tony determinedly took as he struggled to maintain both the anxiety and anger that were warring within him clear as a picture across his bloody face. There was a wonderful imbalance between them that currently that Steve had never felt before. The feeling of being in his superhero costume just reminded him that he was on the side of Good. Lawfulness. Right.

Tony was naked before him, stripped down to his skin. His secrets would soon be as naked before him as his pebbling skin was.

This silence that he currently bore. This was his current weapon. Tony hated silence - could never handle it. It reminded him too much of the silent disapproval that he grew up surrounded by. It made his mind go mad with information. He babbled. Talked to himself, or to anyone who cared to listen. He needed an outlet, an audience.

Steve would not allow him one.

“Alright Steve. I’m sure this was some kind of joke. Haha. Very funny. Let me out now, I don’t like this.”

Tony’s voice contained a hint of a waver in it that appealed to him as much as the naked form before him. Tony didn’t believe his own words. He didn’t believe this was a joke at all.

“Steve! Talk to me! What is going on!?”

Steve continued to stare, that smirk still resting lightly on his face.

“Steve!”

Eventually, after a length of time had passed, Steve let out a sigh and took a small step back. He crouched down so that he had Tony were eye to eye, and uttered in a quiet, controlled voice. “Why did you do it, Anthony Edward Stark? You and your… _Illuminati_. Why, no, how could you do that to one you professed to love.”

As soon as Steve started speaking in his hushed voice, Tony stilled. Every atom tuned in to listen to the man who was speaking as he tried to connect the clues through his painful and muzzy thoughts. It was obvious what the man was referring to. The wipe.

“We… We had to. There was no choice, Steve. You have to understand. You left us no choice! You just didn’t understand. The weapons were the only thin-”

“Shut up!” Steve roared suddenly, spittle flying into Tony’s face, suddenly not willing to hear whatever pithy excuses his lover might have been about to utter. “I don’t want to hear these excuses. Ton- I trusted you! But you, as always, thought yourself to be superior. Better. More clever! You… Futurist.” Steve stepped closer as he spoke, and, without pause or hesitation, raised his hand and backhanded Tony around the face hard enough to send a tooth flying from his mouth and to land on the floor with a quiet ‘toc’ that was all too audible in the suddenly silent room.

Tony remained silent for a few moments as they both regained their breath, chests heaving in near-synchronised unison.

“I… I trusted you. I loved you.” Steve’s words now were mere murmurs, whispers of sentiment swept away into the silence. “How could you do that to me? My mind. My thoughts. My memories. You stole them from me! Tore them from my mind. How could you. Why, God damn you, why?!”

The air seemed to crackle with the tension that laid between the pair of them as Steve’s steely glare bore into Tony’s bowed head.

“...we had to, Steve. You, y-you have to understand. We tried to talk to you. There wasn’t another choice; they didn’t give me one! And you just didn’t listen! I didn’t know what else we could do.” Tony’s words were quiet, rich with sorrow and grief, echoing through the vibrating air, a slight slur audible to the rapidly swelling lip.

Steve grinned. An expression that clearly startled Tony according to the widening of his eyes. He knew the man would offer some bullshit excuse as that. He knew it! He knew that Tony didn’t have any further justification.

“Well, my _love_. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Steve, in a move that made those manicured eyebrows quirk, spun around and walked to their kitchen, the open plan nature of the room making it easy to keep an eye on Tony, something that said man was no doubt regretting. He opened the drinks cupboard, and removed a bottle that was most certainly not normally in there. A bottle shape that Tony was intimately familiar with. One that he both feared and desired in equal measure. Steve knew how hard the fear had to work to beat down the desire. He knew the struggle that Tony went through nearly every day to not just walk into a shop and buy a bottle of this ilk. Usually, this was a desire that he went out of his way to help Tony fight.

Today? He was surrendering to that fight on Tony’s behalf.

He was trying to deceive a genius. What’s more? He was trying to deceive _his_ genius. A man who knew him far too well. But he wanted Tony to _hurt_. He wanted Tony to feel the doubt that Steve himself was feeling. He wanted Tony to doubt his own thought processes, to wonder what was real and what was placed inside his memories. To doubt reality.

Just as Steve was doing.

In order to do that, Steve would need help to make sure that Tony couldn’t think as clearly as usual. The concussion he was fighting would help, but alcohol… Tony knew that Steve would _never_ encourage him to drink. Ever. And the alcohol itself would help to slow down the genius’ thought process.

Besides, he wasn’t really _hurting_ the man he loved, was he? Yes, he’d hit him, and there would be more damage by the end of the night. But nothing that Tony wouldn’t be able to heal from within a few days. And certainly nothing as bad as the genius had been through in the past. His husband was tough. He’d lived through shocking his heart daily just to stay alive. A few cuts and bruises wouldn’t slow him down for long.

Tony’s tongue would loosen enough to give Steve his answers, and then they could go back to normal. Both their minds would be damaged. Both of them would be doubting their realities.

Justice would be served.

Steve, his resolve strengthened once more, despite the quiet pleas his love was now uttering, picked up the two bottles and returned to the man.

“I didn’t feel like you deserved any of the top-shelf stuff, so a couple of bottles of Jim Beam ought to keep you happy, yes love?”

And Steve forced his expression to turn cruel once more as he leant forward and pinched Tony’s nose, forcing the mouth to open.

He ignored the pleas and sobs that followed.

Ignored the way the liquid slowly exited the bottle and flowed into the unwilling vessel.

Ignored the contractions and attempts to spit out the liquid.

Ignored the way the unwillingness slowly turned willing as the familiar burn and fog returned like the embrace of an old and treasured friend.

Ignored the way tears were rolling down both their cheeks.

Once the first bottle was finished, with some liquid spattered across the floor, but most of it sloshing around within the shuddering form still tied to the chair, Steve returned to the kitchen. He methodically washed out the bottle and put it by the floor. He would put in a recycling bin outside somewhere later. He didn’t want any evidence of this to be found anywhere near the Tower.

He stared at his husband, his head rolling around drunkenly, eyes blinking, words being formed and slurred that Steve just could not be bothered to pay attention. His face had two matching bruises, and there were cuts and abraded skin visible wherever the rope was rubbing against the sweat-laden skin.

Steve had not been gentle, he had not been kind.

Otherwise? There were astonishingly few marks on the skin to show the tale of this encounter. Had Steve done enough? The anger still curling in his belly said no. As his stare bore into the drunkard before him a plan slowly began to form.

What if… What if he could manage to somehow convince Tony that someone was planting this vision into his brain? If Steve could keep Tony from being able to think… then he might just mean that Tony would forever more be doubting his own thoughts as to what actually occurred here. The lack of control, and certainty, could haunt his husband for years to come.

This. This could work. He had had to be careful. It was important to only give Tony a few crumbs and let him assume the rest. The haze caused by the concussion and now alcohol would just confuse the man further. Hopefully he would still trust Steve, but just have that inkling of doubt.

If he didn’t trust Steve? Then all Steve needed to do was have words with the rest of the Avengers about this war criminal. Then there would be an entirely different set of consequences.

And Steve would still have his husband. The Avengers could continue.

Was Steve even still attracted to this man? Or had any attraction he had had been lost in the depths of his disgust. He stared at the flaccid cock hanging limply between the drunk’s thighs, trying to summon feelings of… anything. It stirred nothing within Steve. It didn’t even make him think of the many joyous encounters he had had with that particular piece of Tony’s body. Would that change when Steve felt less… like this?

Steve continued to stare at Tony, trying to understand his thoughts. He’d had the answer to his question that this whole thing had been about. Tony had given it to him in the first few moments of this interaction. It was the precise same rationale that Tony and the other members of the Illuminati had given Steve the first time round.

Steve carefully did not examine how this made him feel. Did that mean that this whole endeavour had been pointless? Would Tony learn anything from it? If Steve’s plan came to fruition, then he would at least experience the feelings of violation that Steve himself was feeling. Hopefully Tony would feel the way Steve felt when he first woke from his nightmare with all these new memories.

All that was left now? Just some more physical damage, just to finish off the effect.

Steve removed the knife from his holster with a practised hand, and approached the barely conscious man.

This felt like the hardest part of what he had to do to ensure justice was served. Hurting a man when he was down? That was just wrong. But… once again, there was a reason for this.

He advanced on the figure, not bothering to try and engage him in questions. He wouldn’t remember them in the morning anyway. And then proceeded to cut the living flesh beneath him, ignoring the flinches and cries of pain the alcohol allowed to slip from drunken lips. None of the cuts were all that deep, but they bled. A sinuous trail that slipped its way downward to the carpeted floor beneath. Those stains would not be pleasant to remove later.

Time slipped away from Steve as he cut his lover with meticulous strikes, aiming for areas which would cause pain, but no life threatening injury. When he deemed enough damage had been done, and Tony was unconscious, he let the knife fall to his side. He would clean it later, for sure, scrub it to remove the blood of his ‘love’ from it. Maybe even retire it completely? A future decision. He allowed his other hand to come up and rub the bridge of his nose, trying to sooth away the headache that was beginning to set in. It had been a long old day.

Tony would hopefully brush over it, not wanting anyone to realise about the mindwipe. He’d insist on doing all the research himself. Maybe he’d even blame himself for a mistake with the mindwipe? That would be perfect.

Who knew what future days would bring? Steve was now going to need to sleep on the floor in order to maintain he’d fallen unconscious, and had no memory at all of what had occurred. A pain. He really wanted nothing else than to sleep in his comfortable bed.

Oh well.

He could give up some luxuries for the sake of justice.

And justice? Justice was now served. 


End file.
